


Whatever's Happening is Happening

by wizardian



Category: Shatter Me Series - Tahereh Mafi
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, Romance, This is going to be cheesy, Warnette, be prepared, romcom, warner's POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-19 15:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8214955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wizardian/pseuds/wizardian
Summary: A chance encounter, alcohol and anxiety meds, and a huge misunderstanding.





	1. Chapter 1

I can hardly believe what I am doing. It is so unlike myself.  
There is little order, no planning: it feels  _wrong,_ truly.   
I'm half-convinced I've finally, wholly, lost my mind.

Despite this, I can't sit back and watch this empire fall. I am the ruler of a company, a wealthy organization, but a rival kingdom has stolen my plans - my patent - and there is no way the situation can end without war. Unlike my father, who has entirely given up on Alliant Microtechnology Inc., I refuse to ~~become a deserter~~ let the business go under. Not without a fight. I _have_ to _try._ My involvement in the enterprise goes back to the time I was a child. It isn't just a business, it is my life, and God Himself can't even stop me from keeping it afloat.

My only quality childhood memories rely on it. My mother started AMI, and I'm incapable of letting it go. Not when it's all I have left of her.

I shake the thought as soon as it comes. There is no time for doubt, nor weakness, no matter how burdened my legs feel with hidden insecurity. My hands may want to shake, but I won't let them. Instead, I twirl the familiar jade ring around my little finger and hope I'm not slitting the throats of the only things I care about. 

 ~~Money, comfort, luxury, and~~ AMI.

What feels like an hour passes before I can take my place. I reprimand myself internally for not showing up early. _You're better than this. You shouldn't be here. What's your plan? How will you 'succeed' if you don't even have a plan?_ I suddenly feel like I need a drink, despite it going against my nature to indulge in such activities.  
This plane smells of stale laundry.  
             I hear someone sneeze behind me and cringe.  
                           My gaze scours the area for my row and my mind is flooded with all of the  _disorder._ It's an offense to my very soul.   
_This is going to be an agonizing 5 hours,_ I keep to myself, fighting the urge to step right back off the blasted tin can. I should have used my father's private jet but he would have forced me to do him some sort of favor, and that contradicts my entire code of ethics.

My father is not the sort you want to do  _favors_ for.

As irritation begins churning in my lungs, causing my breaths to shorten, I settle into the stiff seat. My mind wanders momentarily to this trip's landing. I doubt I will be able to feel my legs by the time it's over: a fact I'm terrified to address.

Soon after I begin to relax, my body tenses again. There's a girl in front of me and she's trying to scramble past me to get to the window seat. It's ridiculous and I can't help but laugh out loud, still not moving, though I've noticed her.

" _Move your legs,_ " she hisses, and I grin something twisted.

"So impolite."

"I'm not in the mood, please, just--move your legs." 

I relent. It's something in her voice - it seems to shift my legs of its own volition, ignoring my propensity to ignore strangers' requests.  
My brows furrow thoughtfully as I consider what must be wrong with this woman. She has the longest hair I think I've ever seen, even in a ponytail as it is. I idly observe the side which appears to be dancing. She must have slept on it while it was wet. My own hair has done the very same thing.  
Unashamedly, I continue my studies; eyes raking her body for more clues.  
Relatively casual clothes - jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of kitten heels - nothing fancy. She is dressed to travel. Which, to a certain degree, I can respect.  
My own attire features pressed slacks and a dark purple button down, perfectly business casual, but I must remind myself consistently that I'm a minority when it comes to fashion. Most of the world simply doesn't care about it.  
A shame.

After a second struggle with her bags, the girl at last takes her seat. I duly get the impression she wants to be anywhere but on this plane. At least we have something in common.

Still, I'm not in the mood to talk, so I don't. I tilt my head, lean it on my palm, and wait for this unpleasantness to end.

30 minutes later and I'm telling her to stop tapping her foot.

"--It's dreadful. You are shaking  _my_ leg, too."

"Sorry, I'm sorry."   
She stops instantly and I quirk an eyebrow at her. Upon entering the plane, I had guessed she enjoyed banter, but she succumbed so fast to my demand, I feel like I imagined her earlier retort.

Pressing my lips together in a small frown, I sigh, and resume my brooding.

Though not for long.  
Her leg begins bouncing once more.

"For God's sake--"

"Crap--"

"--What will it take to keep you from doing that?" I ask, but am struck with a brilliant idea before she can even respond. "How old are you?"

"That's a weird question to ask."

"Answer it."

"I'm nineteen."

Nineteen. Two years too soon.  
I roll my eyes.

"Why?"

"I considered ordering you a drink. I've heard they can calm people's nerves."

She seems to consider this.  _Really_ consider it, and I'm surprised. She doesn't appear to be the type to drink, excluding her age.

"I can't drink."

"I realize that."

A small frown settles on her lips. I'm taken by the slight expression. There's something a bit remarkable about this girl but I can't put my finger on it. I do know that there's someone far more interesting behind the moderately-panicked facade she's wearing.

"Could  _you_ order me one?"

"I have the ability, yes, but from what I recall, it's illegal to give drinks to minors."

Her arms cross at that, and she sinks into her chair, curling up into an astonishingly small ball of a person.  
I'm overcome by some odd feeling: one I'm convinced I've never felt before, so I order her a drink anyway.  
A bubbly blonde attendant approaches, grinning from ear to ear. She's sickening. Her perfume is over bearing, she's parted her top enough to noticeably flaunt cleavage, and she wore enough makeup to cover her entire body.

"Yes, baby?" She's talking to me. I can't believe she's has the gall to call me _baby._

"Bring me a scotch and soda." I glance at the girl beside me, who has looked over her shoulder in interest. The way she's looking at this attendant is reminiscent of my own pondering. "Mostly soda, however. I do not wish to get drunk."

"Of course, hun. I'll be right back," she declares, and scuttles off somewhere, being mindful of her hips, which she is waving dramatically.  
I let out a drawn exhale.

As my focus returns to the back of the chair in front of me, the girl speaks, but I hardly hear it.   
"Thanks."

I do not respond.

Five minutes pass and the busty bimbo returns with my drink. I accept it, nod, and pass it to the girl beside me.  
She takes it, sips it, and sighs. Relief of some kind has embraced her trembling frame. I'm thankful her leg is no longer causing the plane to shake.

"I'm Juliette." I didn't ask her. "Sorry for bothering you with my tapping."

I spin the ring around my finger once,  
                                                          twice,  
                                                                  three times and I reply, "As long as you will stop now, I'm fine."

I think she's beginning to realize I detest idle conversation.  
I can tell because she continues with, "Where are you going?"

"New York. Where everyone else on this New York-bound flight is traveling." Perhaps I'm being too harsh on her. My tone is short, irate, and for some ungodly reason I have the urge to apologize.  
I don't, of course - I never apologize - but the thought is enough to leave me feeling slightly winded.

"Right." She looks into her glass, rotates it, and takes a second sip.   
I do wish she'd grow a backbone and tell me where I stand. It's in there, somewhere, but she won't let it out. 

The next hour passes with her finishing off the drink. She asks me if I can order another, and I do, though I ask for there to be even less alcohol in it this time around. I refuse to be liable if she does something foolish. Frankly, if it had been any other day, I would have outright declined, but my recent rapport with recklessness declares this acceptable.

  
In wake of her silence I come very close to falling asleep, a recreation I really should participate more in, but there's a hand on my arm and a head on my shoulder and all 640 of my muscles are locked.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Her words are slurred. I'm worried. "Look, let me explain. Let me come clean." I don't want her to come clean. I would like her to be sober, yes, but I do not wish to hear whatever she's about to utter.  
"I was supposed to get married to this guy, okay, this guy whose name is Seamus Fletcher. Anyway.."  
She goes on to explain to me the wildest story I think I've ever heard.  
Her father is the head of the company who stole my patent. That's the most important detail I glean.   
_Her father is the head of the company who stole my patent._ Is this luck or is it what some people call fate?   
                                                                                                                                                  ~~I hope so~~ I'm undecided.  
She also indulges me with the information that neither of her parents, nor any of her family or friends, have ever laid eyes on the man. They have never met him.   
This man - Seamus Fletcher - was her fiance. Her mother planned their wedding down to the smallest detail but now they've broken up (I say now, but she claims they split some months prior) so she's going to New York to tell her mother that the wedding is cancelled.

I laugh.  
She frowns.  
Starts crying.  
I groan.

I learn that Mr. Fletcher was a banker and an overall mean man. He reminds me of my father: I despise him and I've never met him.

At some point in her delirium, Juliette falls asleep; her head still resting on my shoulder. I notice she's begun drooling in her induced unconsciousness and the urge to vomit becomes so strong I bite my knuckle so I don't dirty my shoes.   
_I should never have left L.A. I should never have left L.A. I should have never--_


	2. Chapter 2

I must have fallen asleep after a very intoxicated Juliette.  
It astonishes me, as I consider it, how quickly the alcohol affected her, and my suspicions rise as my mind clears the fog of rest. There must have been more than scotch which she consumed, and I'm not sure whether to think it may have been medication of some kind or the irritatingly dutiful attendant who consistently asks me  _how I'm doing_ and if she  _can get me anything._ It's infuriating, to a degree, and I'm more than eager to step off this jet-fueled nightmare.

Only, as the pilot allows us to leave, something stops me.  
The girl beside me, who offered nothing but exhaustion, has yet to rouse. She is knocked out and it's worrying. For a few brief seconds I'm frightened she met her demise, somehow, but after checking her pulse, my fears are decidedly foolish.   
Of course she didn't die. ~~People tend to be harder to kill than that.~~

Forgetting everyone else, my gaze settles on her sleeping form. At some point her head lulled backwards, leaning against the window instead of my shoulder. Her hair, which she had lifted in a ponytail, is messy and draped haphazardly over her face and shoulder. With a quick glance, one could find himself thoroughly convinced that she fell out of the sky and landed in the chair like that. It's the best way I can describe to you the twists of her limbs. I pity her slightly, especially as my surveying covers the slight gape of her mouth and awkward angle of her neck. Whatever reacted with that alcohol reacted potently. She needs water and rest more than anything.  
Unable to stop myself, my arms are wrapped around her petite form and I'm lifting her from the spot, along with our luggage. It takes great skill, trying to balance a limp person and multiple bags. Take my word for it.   
I implore you to heed this advice, as well: _**do not ever do as I do.**_

The fly-like woman with too much cleavage comes to check on us, apparently noticing my struggle.  
"Oh, hun, what are you doing?"

I stare at her for a moment, wondering if it was really necessary to repeat exactly what she can see.  
Then my mind filters to deceit. I realize picking up an unconscious  _stranger_ out of their seat could potentially be considered a liability: a risk I am unwilling to take.  
The only chance I can think of stealing involves a lie. So that is the road I choose.  
I suppose, in part, my lack of planning has lead me into a mild panic - one which is clouding my problem solving.  
"My fiancee, here, passed out. I suspect her anxiety medication has hit her too effectively." The handsome smile I offer the woman only adds to my effortless charm, and despite the rump that's resting beside my face, she seems taken by me. "I told her not to take much, as she's quite small, but she refused to listen."

"Well.." I notice her bosom has a nametag, as well. Prior to that point, I avoided looking in that direction. It reads  _Amanda._

Juliette giggles.  
She  _giggles,_ her body trembling with the action.

I clear my throat. "I apologize for the inconvenience, Amanda, truly."

"See, babe, I'd totally let ya leave, but I don't remember seeing you two hopping on this plane together." She gestures from the trembling bottom to me and back again.  
I sigh. "And I can't just let you claim to be someone's fiance when you didn't even board with them."

"I didn't board with her for various personal reasons. Am I required to indulge my life's story?"

Her makeup-laden face grows serious. I must have over stepped some unseen boundary.  
"Yes." 

Shock colors my features in such a raw way even I don't recognize my own reflection in a nearby window.

Juliette stops laughing at Amanda's words. She turns her head, positively delirious still.  
"Wooooww."  
Her mocking tone is enough to elicit a groan, but I stifle the sound before it rises from my lungs.  
"You care a lot. Are you in denial 'cause you want him instead? You can't have him, sorry." Her entire body is limp sans her head, which is swiveling at awkward angles in her effort to look at the blonde. That, coupled with her slurred syllables, makes the situation too comical to be fake.

She's certainly hallucinating. I'm not complaining.

Amanda gasps. "No, that's not what I--"

"Then let me take my soon-to-be wife and leave, please. Preferably  _before_ the plane takes off again."

That's all it takes. She's helping me take our bags out of the _life-event catalyst_ and Juliette has fallen back to sleep.  
That would be ideal, except, now I'm not certain what to do. I'm entirely out of my element in this vast airport.  
I have no plan, no place to go, an unconscious woman slung over my shoulder, and the world couldn't be more unpredictable.

In an attempt to preserve my appearance, I stick with the lie I fabricated on the plane.  
_She's my fiancee, I'm sorry, she took too many anxiety meds._

There are so many people who approach, concerned, that I've forgotten the exact number. I lost count after the 34th or so.

It seems a harmless thing to say, given I mean no malintent, but the gravity of my mistake hits me as a worried-looking woman approaches me too quickly.  
"Excuse me? Why do you have her slung over your shoulder like that? Is she okay?"  
She expresses the same concern as everyone else, and I don't suspect her to be any different.

"Oh, yes, she's my fiancee." I fake a smile. "She wouldn't listen to me and took too many anxiety pills. They've caught up to her."

" _You're_ Seamus? Seamus Fletcher?"

 _My torso is torn open like an autopsy.  
__I watch as my intestines pool around my feet._  
This is what it feels like to be publicly executed. An inspiring moment of enlightenment, indeed, but one too late for my need.

"I... yes. That's me." I extended a hand, dropping a small bag to take hers. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Ferrars."

I've never been more glad to have an excellent memory. I have also never regretted something so greatly in the entire span of my life.

Within minutes I am introduced to her father and her grandmother. They both seem more at-ease than her high-strung mother, and all are buzzing like flies around me, asking me so many questions about my life I eventually run out of the details Juliette lent me and begin mixing my own flair of deception into the concoction of chaos.  
They absorb it all like drowned men and I begin to wonder how little the girl must have told them about Mr. Fletcher. Given they accepted I was he, they must never have even seen the man.

It's astonishing.

And as I'm sitting in the backseat of a town car, watching Juliette sleep beside me, buckled precariously into place, I feel an overwhelming sense of anticipation consume me.

_I never should have spoken to her. I never should have spoken to her. I never should have--_

**Author's Note:**

> I am a very busy person so I'm not going to promise posting dates.  
> I will most likely not give up on this, as I've been pondering it for a long time, so please just remain patient.
> 
> This will all be from Warner's perspective (I like to live on the edge), so bear that in mind.


End file.
